


The End Justifies The Means

by Black_Two_Sugars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: ASiP, Asexual Sherlock, Deaf Character, Deaf Sherlock, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, John is confused, John likes Sherlock, Johnlock possible, Mike Stamford knows, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sign Language, deaf!sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-07-27 12:58:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Two_Sugars/pseuds/Black_Two_Sugars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, a retired army doctor returns injured from Afghanistan unaware that what he has just  left behind him is nothing compared to what is about to come. </p>
<p>Sherlock  Holmes needs an assistant and a room mate but it isn't always easy to share a flat with a remarkably brilliant consulting detective who just happens to deaf.</p>
<p>And Mycroft Holmes? He worries. Constantly.</p>
<p>Following ASiP  to establish then onto their own unique case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despite being an avid reader this is my first fanfic. I'm HoH and often like to think of how Sherlock would adapt his work if he were Deaf/HoH. For the minute this stands alone but I might try to develop it to incorporate John and 221b if I can, then I'll add more BSL descriptors. I've changed syntax for a more English based reader but tried to convey sign as well. Hopefully will get better as I adapt and learn. I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.

“Try, Sherlock. Try. Please”

Mycroft’s right palm swept slowly and deliberately over his left. The fourteen year old slowed everything down for a purpose; he wanted Sherlock to know he was practically begging him, something which Mycroft was most definitely not in the habit of doing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the hearing aid. Standing with the small device resting in the palm of his outstretched hand he tentatively offered it to his younger brother. It looked so small and innocuous that to an outsider it would be hard to believe the strife it had caused in the Holmes’ household.

Mother and Father had given up after what became an exhausting repetition of frayed tempers, screaming Sherlock and a somewhat generous amount of newly recruited nannies suddenly taking early retirement. They tried to explain to him, to tell the small boy with the tear filled blue eyes and heavy mop of black curly hair that they were just trying to help. If only he could hear something. If he could hear the vibration of a door slamming shut or a slight recognition of a shout or the dog barking. Anything. Anything that would stop him being so easily startled. Anything that would stop the shouting when anyone touched him to get his attention. He hated being touched but what else could they do? Eventually they had no choice but to give up and leave him to his own silent world. They still loved him of course, showered him with affection and attended classes so they could communicate properly but they gave up on him ever hearing anything. Sometimes mummy would cry because she was worried about what would happen when he got older. She felt she had to protect him and make a fuss even more now. That’s when it hit Mycroft; if he could get Sherlock to wear it mummy and daddy would be so pleased. Mummy would stop crying and he would get the attention and praise that he’d been deprived of during this long Sherlock-centric mission of theirs. 

He had a plan.

Mycroft kept his palm steadily outstretched as his younger brother stared blankly through him, glazed and uninterested. Bored. The fourteen year old let out a long, exasperated sigh and allowed his shoulders and head to relax into a slight slump. Such a defeated posture was rarely exhibited by ‘the smart one’ and didn’t pass unnoticed by his younger brother. Mycroft walked slowly to the far side of the room to place the aid on the old mahogany drawers. The dilapidated drawers looked sorely out of place in the seven year olds’ bedroom but he loved them and begged for them to be there because each drawer had a different lock. He could store his secret experiments in each one and try to pick the locks open when bored. Mycroft gently rested the aid on top of the dark polished wood and took a moment. In one swoop he swiftly collected himself again and with a smooth, deep intake of breath, straightening his back and raising his head he approached his brother once again. Sherlock let a small smile slip from the corner of his mouth, ‘Welcome back, brother mine’, he thought.

It was time to put the plan into action. 

Mycroft checked Sherlock was watching him and raised his hands to chest height. His index and middle fingers extended on each hand he pointed to his younger brother as the right index pushed very slowly against the left. That word again ‘try’. He was emphasising it as much as was humanly possible, not that it made a difference because as soon as Sherlock had seen the hand shape forming again he had stamped his feet in protest and turned to run out. The older brother reached out in a flurry of temper and grabbed the younger sibling’s arm. He pulled down hard, as hard as he could. Sherlock let out a wounded shriek of fear and pain. Mycroft knew he’d hurt him as soon as he touched him. He also knew that touching him alone was enough to distress his younger brother but it was all necessary; the end would justify the means. Sherlock just didn’t know what was best for him, yet. The small boy looked up at Mycroft confused and upset, his dark curls not quite long enough to hide the tears that were forming. His older brother steadied him so that they were facing each other, pressing his hands on the side of Sherlock’s arms, forcing him to stay there. Gently he released the pressure and Sherlock tried to hold in the tears as his brother raised his hands once more.

‘Sherlock. Wait. Look. Maybe hearing aid you never like but helps you. Helps everyone. Wait. Watch. You love Redbeard.’  
Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sign for Redbeard, Mycroft had him. He was interested. Mycroft continued signing.  
‘Redbeard love Sherlock. This you not wear maybe Redbeard scared, maybe hurt or maybe sad and cry. Maybe dog need help and cry but you hear how? He say ‘Help me Sherlock’ but you hear never because no hearing aid. Dog need you. You never know. Mummy and daddy right, different family take Redbeard. Better boy love dog. Boy hear dog better. Redbeard love hearing boy more than Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock have goldfish. ‘

Hot tears started to stream slowly down Sherlock’s face leaving bright red streaks on his cheeks. His index and middle finger were repetitively closing down on his thumb. ‘No! No! No!’ He frantically repeated the motion as the worry built up in his face. He darted over to the mahogany drawers and snatched the hearing aid hastily fixing it behind his left ear, the only one that would benefit from it. His fingers darted out in a straight line from his eyes, ‘Look! Look!,’ he pointed to his ear and switched the device on. Mycroft smiled. It had worked. Mummy and daddy would be so proud of him, he told himself that it was all for Sherlock’s own good really. Sherlock stood dishevelled and still upset; he looked up at Mycroft.

 

‘Try,’ he signed, ‘I try.’


	2. Nothing Ever Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all for the comment and Kudos. I was going to give our boys their own case but thought I'd go for the traditional meet etc. first. Wish I could've included more BSL but we have to give poor John time. Mycroft will hopefully show up soon too, just to bridge BSL gap because he loves his brother really. Constructive comments gratefully received. I've stuck very closely to ASIP here so apologies if it's slow.

**Another fucking nightmare.**

Doctor John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers jumped up, still startled, shaking and drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging to his chest. His heart thumped heavily in his body whilst the blood rushed to his head, he could hear it pounding, making a gushing, whooshing sound filling his ears with each heavy heartbeat as he slowly attempted to regain his bearings. He tried to control his breathing. He was in his flat; bare, austere and a horrible shade of green, but safe. Safe. You’re safe. Breathe. Breathe.

No-one would have thought anything of a military man experiencing severe nightmares and reliving the trauma of what he’d witnessed in service. It was brutal and devastating but wholly natural. The military and indeed the whole world understood a lot more about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder now than ever before, people accepted it and were eager to help, sometimes a little over-eager for his liking. John Watson, however, hated himself for it. He hated the nightmares and how they paralysed him with fear, he hated that he couldn’t control his own left hand, he hated that his damn leg no longer worked properly and most of all he hated that bloody walking stick.

Ella said the nightmares would get better, less frequent, and less vivid; give it time they’ll ease off with the therapy. They hadn’t. And worse, worse than everything else, he’d woken up alone again. So alone. Always alone.

In the army he’d wake up every day surrounded by people he knew and admired. Everything was communal and everyone had a shared experience. There was something oddly comforting in that despite living in war zone, he was living in a war zone with people he looked up to and respected and most of them would lay their lives down for him without hesitation, if it ever came to it. He’d wake to the cacophony of sounds, the sometimes frankly awful smells and the dry oppressing heat with a million and one things to do and all under extreme pressure but he loved every second of it. He lived for it, thrived on it until one day he was working in the field on a young recruit with a deep laceration to his lower abdomen, the sun scorching down and the sweat running into his eyes as he worked against time when suddenly he felt a searing hot pain shoot through his shoulder and it all just stopped. Now it was over. Here there was nothing. Nothing ever happened anymore and one day just bled into the next with therapy being the only occasional blip in the monotony of civilian life. No wonder so many of his service friends had left the army only to step straight into alcoholism or gambling or both. It was hard to adjust. 

Today was a blip day and John was surprised just how quickly therapy managed to roll around every week. He made sure his shirt and trousers were pressed and shoes buffed the night before, things the army had bred into him from day one. He may feel miserable but he could still be presentable.  
It was only a short walk to the therapist’s office and before he knew it he was back in the chair facing Ella with absolutely nothing to say. The room managed to be floral yet fairly neutral and beige with a green leafy plant in one of the windows, John imagined it was all to put you at ease, bring the outside in but not too much. He hated it. It reeked of newly painted walls and freshly laid carpets, all far too sterile and new. She talked about trust issues again. Well what did she expect? He’d spent most of his time in the military which didn’t exactly encourage the ‘a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet’ mantra. Then onto the blog, again. Was she trying to rub it in? He’d told her before and with an intake of breath and desperately hoping he wouldn’t have to repeat himself again next week he sighed, ‘Nothing ever happens to me.’

John had no idea what had possessed him to walk through Russell Square Park on the way back, maybe Ella was getting to him. It sounded like something she’d suggest. He used to love sitting here as a student doctor. There was something about the patch of grass and the sounds of the water dropping and splashing heavily from the fountain into the pond below all the while being surrounded by the bustle of the city. Even when it rained he would still come here for lunch, sitting on the bench watching the water slowly saturate the grass and bounce up as it hit the path. It relaxed him. He needed to be in the centre of things but it was nice to have an oasis and this was his oasis. As soon as he stepped into the park he realised he’d made a mistake. No, not now. Not anymore. He instantly realised that this was a place for a younger, more optimistic John Watson, ready to go to the army, travel the world and live off the adrenaline of serving on the front line, making a difference, enjoying medicine and having his whole career ahead of him. He wasn’t that John Watson. Not anymore. He decided to march as quickly as he could through the young people and city workers enjoying their lunch and straight back to the safety of his bedsit. Just five more minutes then he’d – 

‘John? John Watson?’

He turned to see a stout man he vaguely recognised. The friendly beam of his face was very familiar, maybe it was the panic amid the green haze of the gardens and the drive to get home to safety overtaking his mind but he just couldn’t place him.

‘Mike? Mike Stamford? We were at Bart’s together?’

Ah, yes. Mike of course. He’d gotten fat, that’s why he couldn’t quite place him, or at least that’s what John told himself. John gave the obligatory hello while his mind recoiled at the thought of the horrendous small talk that was about to begin. He didn’t want to talk, least of all to someone who reminded him of the days he’d just been trying to forget.

‘Yeah, I know. I got fat.’

John gave a very unconvincing denial of the fact.

‘I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at, what happened?’ Mike half-chuckled.

‘I got shot.’

The silence was awkward and palpable until Mike piped up to finally break it and suggested, well insisted, on coffee to catch up. He also insisted that John sit and rest while he got them, making him feel even more useless than normal. If it had been anyone else John would have made his excuses and left but he knew Mike meant well and he’d been there for him in college when John had been out a little too late and indulged in a little too much the night before.

Stamford came back with the coffee and the awkward silence from earlier was back with a vengeance.

‘Still at St.Bart’s?’ John offered. Please let that be enough, he thought. He was desperately out of practice in the art of idle chit-chat. It was either that or the weather. You can always rely on the weather. Mike was teaching now. He looked like a teacher and John had always half-suspected he would teach. He had that welcoming and reassuring aura which was now only helped by his round face and bright, friendly eyes shining through his glasses. It was maybe half the reason John hadn’t made his excuses and left earlier. He asked about John staying in London but strangely seemed to genuinely want to know, as if he wanted John to be happy, something which John hadn’t come across much in military or civilian life. Mike Stamford, whom he hadn’t seen in years seemed to want to make John Watson happy. Strange. He suggested Harry (it had obviously been long enough since they’d last spoken that he’d forgotten how implausible that was) then suggested a flat share. John couldn’t help but stifle a derisory snort of disbelief,

‘Come on – who’d want me for a flatmate?’

‘Well’, Mike smiled,’you’re the second person to say that to me today.’ 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

God, St. Bart’s had changed. It was so new and bright and well, modern. John couldn’t help but feel old and a little out of his depth as Mike showed him around but he trusted Mike’s judgement, he wouldn’t pick a twenty year old, iPod wearing, bearded ‘hipster’ student to flatshare. Probably an old miserable Professor of Medicine who no-one could get along with and everyone suffered under as a means to an end, the kind with wiry eyebrows spread across their forehead and a near-constant snarl on their lips whose cheeks and eyes were slightly bloodshot from noisily disciplining nervous first year medical students. John got ready to say thanks but no thanks. He’d rather live miserably in suburbia.

‘He’s just through here.’ Mike beckoned as he opened the door.

John almost thought he saw a slight smirk on the man’s face. It was a medical lab, much changed from his day. it was dimly lit with what light there was bouncing off various jars to create a slightly warm and reassuring glow. At the far end of the room completely absorbed in using a pipette to drop a chemical into a petri dish sat a tall, dark and very slim and serious looking young man. The light shone softly on his black curly hair and despite being at opposite ends of the room John couldn’t help but notice his strong angular features. His cheekbones were so sharply defined whilst his jaw line was strong and reminiscent of old paintings in National Trust properties of the aristocracy who were of ‘good breeding’. John suddenly came-to, hell, why was he thinking this deeply about a man he’d just seen for the first time?

It was ok, John realised as the man hadn’t even noticed they’d entered the room, he was too absorbed in his work. That could be good, sharing with someone absorbed in their work. They’d keep out of each other’s way, except John had a quick flash of realisation that he wouldn’t necessarily want that. He hung back and let Mike approach the man. As Mike stood in front of him he looked up and made the sign of a phone to his ear. John standing off to one side leaned his head to the right slightly and raised his brows in a very British show of disdain. It could be translated into common usage as ‘Well, that’s a bit bloody rude’. Manners don’t cost anything, especially when talking to Mike who it seemed was trying to do them both a good deed.

‘Sorry, I left it in my other coat’. Mike told him, all the while with the whisper of a smile on his face. The stranger fixed his stare intently on the teacher’s face before he shrugged and refocused on his work.

‘Here, use mine.’ John offered, stepping forward slightly. The man made no move and continued to stare downwards absorbed in whatever reaction was taking place in the petri dish. Was he being deliberately awkward? Was it a silent genius routine? John wasn’t entirely sure exactly what it was, something was different but one thing he was entirely sure of was his inability to live with a brooding, pretentious scholar. Nevertheless he pushed the phone over to the stranger’s side of the table which caused him to quickly raise his head and look forward, directly into John Watson’s eyes. His eyes were as sharp as his other features, a penetrating and commanding blue that fixed John to the spot. For a second he felt them bore into him and study him intensely before the man swiftly lifted his right hand, touched his fingers to his chin gently and moved them away towards John before looking down at the phone.

‘Wait, he’s....he’s deaf?’ John stammered.

Of course! Of course he’s deaf. How could he have been so stupid! He hadn’t spoken one word to them since they’d arrived, hadn’t even looked up when the door opened, he’d used gestures to get his point across and he hadn’t even responded to John giving him the phone until he could see it. How could he have been so slow? John kicked himself. Idiot.  
‘Oh yeah, probably should’ve mentioned that’, Mike laughed. This was typical of the Mike John remembered, one major detail held back just to amuse himself at the other person’s reaction. It wasn’t done maliciously but his potential roommate being deaf was a slight detail John would’ve liked to have known in advance.

The man looked up at John and handed him his phone back, screen on and pointed towards him, as John looked down he took a step back, the words **‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’** were emblazoned on the harsh light of the screen. He showed Mike who barely reacted except for the stupid grin painted on his face. John looked back to the stranger whose face was as neutral and still as it had been before with the exception of his eyebrows being slightly raised as he waited for a response. 

‘Afghanistan...how’, John almost whispered with his head bowed, confused by the whole situation.

When he looked up the man looked slightly annoyed, his head was lowered slightly to match John’s. Shit, maybe he hadn’t caught his answer. Talking to a deaf person was completely new to John, he wasn’t sure of the etiquette, if that was even the word for it. He was saved by the door opening and a small, nervous brown-haired and soft-featured young woman in a lab coat entered quietly, the still potential roommate’s face brightened as he took a cup from her. As he took the cup with his left hand he raised his right with index and thumb pinched and moved it around his lips as he his eyebrows drew down slightly he looked confused.

‘Um...no. I took it off, it wasn’t working for me.’ The woman said.

John presumed she was a scientist and quite a pretty scientist, not that it mattered, not that he judged people on their looks but he had no idea why she didn’t seem more confident. She seemed nice and was obviously well accomplished.

She was so nervous. John could feel the awkward energy positively emanating from her. He didn’t blame her, something about this man just made a person feel...well...inferior. Not that he would ever admit it. He noticed just how hard the man had fixed his stare on the scientist’s mouth while she was talking and made a mental note to never look down when replying again.

The tall and slim man shrugged his shoulders with a look of disappointment. He pointed his hand towards her with a closed fist, quickly moved his index finger to his mouth then palms out and facing each other he brought his hands close together. The woman tapped her index to her ring finger and then curved it against her left index and smiled slightly before leaving. It seemed she thought this normal. John was confused. This looked like simple signing but surely he couldn’t be talking about small mouths and lips. 

The man turned to focus on John, held out his left arm and imitated playing a violin before running his middle and ring fingers on each hand up the sides of chest and swiftly turning his hands palm up and quickly interlocking and unlocking his fingers. He seemed to try to mouth the words as well but all of this was of no help to John Watson. He felt pathetic as he shook his head and said ‘sorry’ at as normal a tone and pace as he could. He tried not to draw any words out.

Well, apparently that should’ve been easy for him to understand as the man threw his head back slightly and grabbed a pen and piece of paper.

**‘Violin. How do you feel about it?’**

‘Oh...um..fine. Wait, what? Why?’ He didn’t really know why it was relevant at all and a deaf man playing the violin? He was beginning to suspect this was a wind-up and the tall, dark, hand... no, the tall, dark man was in on it all.

The man turned the paper to continue writing, every so often flicking his curious and sharp blue eyes up to look at John. His dark curls falling slightly as he looked at the paper and his quick and slender hands moving rhythmically with the pen. John was sure the man had glanced up and caught the bewildered look he’d given to Mike who seemed to be enjoying the whole experience. He was half-tempted to offer the man popcorn or intermission refreshments. He desperately wanted to ask Mike more questions but it seemed rude considering he was already in a conversation of sorts with this enigmatic stranger. The man pushed the paper over to John again.

**‘I play violin when thinking. Sometimes no communication for days. Would that bother you? Flatmates should know worst about each other.’**

Okay, this was beginning to get ridiculous, John looked up into the man’s fixed gaze, how did he know about the flat situation. As he started to ask how John realised he hadn’t noticed the paper being taken away, the man’s head bowed to continue.

**‘Talked to Mike earlier. Told him this morning hard to find a flatmate for me. Now, after lunch Mike has friend. Home from army service in Afghanistan, obvious. Nice place in London centre, we can afford it together.’**

After handing John the paper again he turned to put on his heavy, long and sweeping, grey coat. My god, the coat is as dramatic as he is, John thought.

‘How did you know about Afghanistan?’ John needed to know.

The man turned back to the room and started walking towards the door. Damn, John had already forgotten, the man had his back turned when asked the question. John felt like a complete idiot for what must’ve been the fifth or sixth time that day. He caught the man’s attention again by standing in front of him and holding his palm up, in what he hoped was a universal sign for ‘stop’. It worked the man stopped but he’d stopped in what John would’ve called his ‘personal space’, except that he wasn’t irritated by this particular man being in it. His coat touched John’s legs as he started to put on a blue scarf that was obviously more expensive than John’s entire outfit.

The man rubbed his chest in a circular motion, then pointed to himself, put his index and middle finger on his left palm and drew them forward quickly. Then he rolled his eyes as he flicked his head made a whip motion and flicked his index and middle fingers down in a straight line. His head then turned to Mike who stumbled over a rough translation. Evidently he’d grown bored of paper.

‘Ahh... I think he has to hurry, he’s forgotten something....maybe?’ Mike didn’t sound convinced in his own ability and John almost laughed at the sheer madness of the situation.

The man gracefully sidestepped John and walked on. Without thinking John grabbed the back of the stranger’s arm and pulled. He pulled a little too hard. Shit, he didn’t want this to end because of some faux-pas in his part. Yes, he was annoyed, yes he didn’t appreciate feeling like a complete idiot but he wanted to know more. He admitted to himself that he wanted to live with this man. He wasn’t entirely sure why yet; he just knew that he wanted it to happen. This had been the most interesting meeting he’d had since he’d returned from Afghanistan and he couldn’t let it end here.

The man in question turned sharply, scowling at him. He seemed half-shocked, irritated and a little bit disappointed. Obviously he didn’t appreciate it but his face softened quickly and he was back to that neutral albeit slightly austere expression.

‘Is that it?’ John ventured.

The man moved his extended index finger from side to side with a puzzled expression on his face. There was something endearing about seeing this man confused, John thought. He looked genuinely lost for a second and almost vulnerable.

‘That means ‘what’!’ Mike shouted from across the room.

‘Yes, thanks, Mike’. John managed through gritted teeth. Mike had chosen now to try to help and make things clearer. He couldn’t have done that say, at the very start. The man must have understood as he looked quickly to Mike then refocused on John. 

‘We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.’ John was impressed, his voice sounded a lot more calm than he felt inside. The stranger’s eyes were narrowed and entirely focused on John’s mouth. John suddenly became very conscious of his own lips and wished he hadn’t had that coffee which always stained his teeth a little.

The man relaxed his gaze once John had finished. He reached inside the coat and pulled out his phone. There was a draft message.  
**‘I know you are army doctor, sent home with injury from Afghanistan.**  
**I know you have brother worried for you but you never ask help.**  
**Probably don’t approve of him, maybe because alcoholic probably because left wife.**  
**I know your therapist thinks limp psychosomatic. Correct, sorry.**  
**I know you would need to ask for more information so I have to have this draft ready.**  
**Think that is enough, no?’**

John’s eyes widened in disbelief, he didn’t even get time to raise his head fully before the man had reached the door. Part of him couldn’t help thinking the stranger had turned his back on him and walked to the door in order to avoid seeing John ask any more questions. Almost as an afterthought the man with the sweeping coat and scarf to match his eyes turned, flicked his index and middle finger outwards from his head and made a flurry of quick signs in succession before giving John the fingers twice and pointing upwards, then following this with another sign, both hands shaped like ‘o’ meeting each other at the index. Then more quick signs before he winked, smiled and swept out of the door, his coat gliding behind him. As he left he seemed to take the air in the room with him. John stood in a confused daze feeling as if he’d been slightly winded. Utterly bewildered he couldn’t think of one thing to say. It all seemed like something from a film but John couldn’t quite decide what side this man would be on if it were. The evil mastermind or the hero? Did it even matter at this point? John had to admit it didn’t, he was already enthralled.

 

‘Wait....did he....did he just give me the fingers?’

 

Stamford laughed, ‘That, John Watson is Sherlock Holmes. And yes, he’s always like that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering I've changed and given Sherlock a small 'd' as after thinking about it, although he's very proud to be deaf I just can't see him associating and immersing himself in any community. He's still very proud just doesn't associate with capital 'D'.
> 
> Sherlock's notes are brief and without some pronouns etc. to prepare for BSL structure and syntax. He could write in received English if he had time or wanted to. Today he doesn't have time and needs to show off and get to the mortuary.
> 
> This was hastily done so I may go back and fix things if I think it needs done.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Three Suicides and a Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting at 221b Baker Street is unlike anything John has ever experienced before.

John stood on the corner of the street staring up at the embossed uniform black lettering and allowed himself to let out a small snort of disbelief as he shook his head.

Baker Street NW1  
City of Westminster

Two days ago he had envisaged his future self alone, working from a small bedsit in the suburbs and now he was about to look at a flat in central London with a man he had just met. A man he knew nothing about but who seemingly knew everything about him. A man who thought it was perfectly acceptable to stop a conversation in order to dash to a morgue. A man whose language he didn't even speak. A small part of him wondered if this was all some big elaborate wind-up. He'd knock on the door of 221b only to be greeted with a laugh and a 'Gotcha!' from a jolly looking Mike, accompanied by a small, wry smile from Mr. Sherlock Holmes who, as it turned out, was most definitely not deaf. I mean, central London, zone one for goodness sake. This was the place for millionaires, surely? Not a wounded army doctor with a small army pension. He let the scenario play over in his mind but realised he had absolutely nothing to lose and even if it were all some great big joke, he'd still get to see Mr. Holmes again and work out why he felt so drawn to him. Maybe it was just a general aura that he had? It certainly seemed so with the young woman at Bart's. That nervous sense of inadequacy that the man made you feel. He walked briskly up Baker Street and reached the smoothed stone steps at the foot of the ebony door to 221b. He was about to lift the heavy brass knocker, which matched the shiny door number, when he heard the unmistakable hum of a black cab pulling up behind him. He turned to see Sherlock Holmes jump effortlessly from the back of the cab onto the footpath. As he approached John he gave a slightly exaggerated wave from left to right.

Damn.

John had half-hoped that his imagination had added certain features like the height, the sharp jaw and the air of easy superiority for dramatic effect but it hadn't. He really did look like...like that. Sherlock flashed John a perfunctory smile and reached past him to knock the door. The heavy door drew back to reveal a petite, middle-aged, bright and welcoming woman with mousey brown hair and small twinkling eyes. She smelled slightly of parmaviolets, which John assumed was her perfume, but it was nice and somehow a fitting smell for the small effervescent woman.

'Sherlock!' she exclaimed as she threw her arms open to hug him. The name was said with such genuine warmth and affection that John wondered if she was a family member. 'Well, come in, come in!', she gestured towards the hall and they all stepped in, John closing the door behind him.

Sherlock pointed towards John then tapped the back of his left hand with the thumb index and middle finger of his right hand and started to fingerspell. John had tried to practice fingerspelling beforehand and although he could tell Sherlock was going slowly, he still only caught the 'J', 'h' and final 'n' of what he assumed was his full name, This was maybe going to be harder than he had previously thought. The woman turned towards John but kept herself in sight of Sherlock at all times.

'Well, it's nice to meet you Dr. Watson. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady and I see you already know our Sherlock well.'

'Um...no actually..no I've only just met Mr. Holmes really and -'

Sherlock held his hand up to stop John. He pinched his index and middle fingers down onto his thumb then brought his index and middle fingers up to flick away from his temple. He started to fingerspell again but this time very, very slowly. John concentrated and tried not to let his nervousness show.

S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K

Oh. Sherlock, not Mr Holmes.

'Sorry', John muttered.

Sherlock waved his hand in a nonchalant way. It was quite reassuring really. He wasn't chastising John, he was simply telling him to dispose with the formalities,

'Oh, don't worry doctor. It's a strange name to get used to at first, isn't it?', Mrs Hudson shrugged, John saw Sherlock roll his eyes. 'Well,' the landlady began, 'He's such a nice boy, our Sherlock. He helped me a few years ago when my husband got into a bit of trouble and was up for the death penalty in Florida.'

'Sorry, what?' John couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. 'He stopped your husband being executed?'

'Oh no, dear,' she beamed towards Sherlock, 'he ensured it. Well...shall we?' she said breezily as she gestured towards the stairs. 

John noticed that Sherlock's eyes had brightened from his previously bored reverie with the mention of the husband's execution. This was already unlike any flat share John had experienced before. Sherlock led the way followed by a slightly stunned John with Mrs. Hudson behind them. Mrs Hudson started to speak again although this time in a more hushed tone:

'Try not to sneak up on him dear, let him know you're there before you go near him. In Florida I used to switch the lights on and off, that works. Oh and let him see your mouth when you're talking, helps him you know, with the lip-reading and don't mumble. Oh, he hates mumblers! And don't turn away, it gets a bit of getting used to but don't worry. Learn the alphabet, that's the best thing I think, helps you out a bit. I can't sign but you pick little things up here and there, oh and - '

The conversation was cut short as they reached the top of the stairs where Sherlock was waiting. He seemed impatient for them to get to the top of the hall and John felt a flush of embarrassment as he reached the top step. It didn't seem right to talk about the man, literally behind his back when he couldn't hear anything that was being said. Even though John hadn't said anything and he had to admit that he was grateful for the tips, it still didn't sit well and he hoped that Sherlock didn't pick up on it. As John's walking stick hit the landing with the final step, Sherlock swung the door open with the air of a big reveal, like a star prize on an eighties game-show. John entered the room. It was a lot bigger than he'd imagined and it was cluttered. Very cluttered. Boxes and papers were strewn everywhere. He could see the dust dancing with the light streaming down onto a worn Persian style rug. Amid the clutter the living room contained two chairs, one modern with black leather cushions caged in slightly with shiny steel bars and the other an old, weathered but comfortable looking armchair both placed in front of a traditional Victorian fireplace and hearth. He turned slightly to look at the kitchen. Petrie dishes and distillation equipment were scattered across the table, reflecting and refracting the beam from the harsh kitchen strobe light with the surrounding green walls just about softening the blow.

Sherlock watched John closely as he studied the room, he waited on him to turn so he could catch his eye. Eventually John turned towards him and Sherlock turned his palms over in a more universal sign of 'Well?' 

'Oh, this could be nice.' John said, making sure to face him, 'Very nice indeed.' Sherlock smiled slightly and John turned to look at the walls before he even realised he'd done it but he heard Sherlock fustling with papers behind him so assumed it was okay to turn his back for a second. John turned back to face him, 'I mean, as soon as we get all the rubbish cleared out.' The words had already escaped his mouth before he noticed the notepad Sherlock was holding with 'My thoughts exactly, that's why I went ahead and moved in.' written boldly and neatly across it. The two men stared at each other across the room. It was hard to know which of the two was the most embarrassed by the whole situation. Sherlock suddenly jumped-to and started to move some papers about intermittently tapping his right hand off his left palm.

'Oh, don't get too used to that sign!', John jumped slightly, he'd completely forgotten that Mrs. Hudson was still there, 'That's the sign for tidy. I use it all the time but don't expect Sherlock to use it again! Oh and I should mention that there's another bedroom upstairs, that's if you'll be needing two bedrooms.' she said with a smile.

John quickly shot a glance over at Sherlock who was thankfully too preoccupied with his papers and so missed what had just been said. He flushed hot with embarrassment, 'Well of course we'll be needing two.'

'Oh don't worry.' the landlady smiled eagerly, 'We get all sorts around here. Mrs Turner next door has got married ones.' He could tell she was trying to put him at ease but it did the opposite. He tried to shrug it off and hoped she'd drop the conversation.

John moved towards the mantelpiece, 'A skull...is that a skull?' but the words never reached Sherlock who was busy looking in one of the many, many files.

'You have to get his attention sometimes dear, he's always got his head buried in books, or experiments or papers. A little wave usually works, see - ,' and with that Mrs Hudson flapped her hand in Sherlock's direction. He looked up suddenly and with the intensity of the man that John had first met at Bart's. It was almost like an auto-focus, he was in work mode. Mrs Hudson pointed to John who in turn pointed to the skull on the mantle and for reasons even he didn't fully understand, mouthed the words 'This a real skull?' Sherlock smiled and linked both his hands to form a handshake. He looked like he was about to speak when Mrs Hudson jumped in to interpret 'friend'. Sherlock smiled briefly before letting the corners of his mouth drop into a neutral expression again, he held his index finger up in order to hold John's attention. He fluttered his fingers against his cheek, moved his fists on top of ach other with index fingers out and then moved his right hand beside his mouth putting his index and middle fingers on his thumb clasping them and drawing them away from his mouth.

Neither Mrs. Hudson or John understood, which was obvious by the blank stares they greeted the signs with. Sherlock then tapped his index and middle fingers to his throat but was greeted with the same bewildered stares. He sighed slightly and grabbed the notepad, he flipped the page and scribbled quickly. This time the writing wasn't so neat, it read, 'When you are talking please use your voice. You look stupid when you mime.'

'Oh. I...sorry..I didn't realise', John offered but Sherlock just gave a wave of the hand in a 'used to it' way and returned to his study.

Mrs Hudson bustled about the room, lifting and tidying things away a little, She picked up a newspaper from the floor and studied the headline. She waved her hand towards Sherlock who had now moved to one of the long windows. He was too busy gazing into the street to see the bid for attention so she moved closer and more to his side, moving her hand up and down slightly. Sherlock turned his head lazily towards her, his blue eyes flicking up to follow her hand which was pointing to the three serial suicides headline.

'What do you think about that? I thought that would have been right up your street. Three of them exactly the same.' she mused.

Sherlock turned gently back to the window as John stood off to the side, watching him and still digesting the events that had led him this far. Sherlock suddenly held up four fingers. He turned again to face Mrs Hudson who was waving her index finger from left to right. 'What?' Sherlock held four fingers up again and touched his index and middle fingers to his temple then drew them away while tilting his head back. He stepped forward and took the paper from her hands, his fingers running over the word 'suicides'. He dropped the paper to the floor as the landlady sighed then crossed both index fingers over at the tips before flicking them away from each other.

John heard the front door slam followed by heavy footsteps ascending the staircase. A tall official looking man with salt and pepper hair, grey eyes and a rather over-worked demeanour rushed through the living room door. He didn't even seem to notice John was there, instead he focused all his attention on Sherlock who was already moving his hands, palms up in small circles.

'Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.' the man said, holding out his phone with what must have been conformation of the fact, either a map or the name typed out John supposed.

Sherlock repeated the sign he had used earlier with his index fingers flicking out then moved his right hand up from behind his left. He finished by making the sign for 'what' which John now understood. Turns out Mrs. Hudson was right, you do pick things up.

'You know how they never leave a note? Well, this one did. Will you come?' the man said but it seemed like more of a plea.

Sherlock waved his index finger in a circle then arched his index and middle fingers on both hands before moving them away from his chest, flexing them as he did so.

'Anderson'. came the reply.

Sherlock threw his head back and groaned slightly. It took John by surprise as he hadn't heard him make many sounds since meeting him, Sherlock threw his hands away from each other and made an almost sawing motion before bringing his hands together and touching his left hand to his chest.

'He won't be your assistant.' the man groaned,

Sherlock moved his right hand down the right side of his body and moved his left fist forward with his right behind it, both thumbs sticking up.

'Will you come?' the man repeated the question but this time in a more exasperated and desperate manner.

Sherlock moved his fist down at the wrist with his thumb and little finger out and then pointed both index fingers forward, with the right hand following the left.

'Thank-you!', the man sighed, his utter relief and gratitude apparent from the tone.

John fleetingly wondered if that was something Sherlock could interpret, the tone with which something is said. He then realised that the whole conversation had left him more confused than he had been five minutes ago. All he had managed to understand was that someone named 'Anderson' was definitely not Sherlock's assistant.

The man with the salt and pepper hair turned and nodded to John and Mrs Hudson before making his way back down the stairs. Sherlock turned to face the window again. John heard the slam of a car door and the revving of an engine all of a sudden the tall and formal Sherlock Holmes was jumping, literally jumping for joy. He punched the air, pointed to himself then his temple and made a yawning motion in front of his mouth. He beamed from ear to ear as he made the sign for 'suicide' again. He dropped his hands down slightly, both palms up and drew a rectangle in the air using both index fingers and thumbs. John thought he actually heard him laugh. It was a nice, deep sound albeit brief as Sherlock's dark curls bounced along with the happy to-ing and fro-ing of his movements. He kept raising his hands as if to start signing before throwing them down to his sides again as he moved about the room filling his pockets with things he might need.

He pointed to Mrs. Hudson, then back to himself and threw his right hand back before forming a fist with his little finger and thumb pointing out he moved it side to side then brought his hand to his mouth as if he were eating. This was met with a reminder that she was the landlady and not his housekeeper. Sherlock didn't seem to take this under his notice instead turning to John and making a sign that looked like he was drinking a cup of tea. He touched both hands together at the fingertips and lifted his right fist to his cheek. His eyes beamed as the energy flowed out of him. He waved his right hand and dashed for the door, he was out the front door in what seemed like a millisecond. John had to wonder if Sherlock made a point of making all his exits dramatic. He couldn't help but feel frustrated. When was the last time he had ever felt as happy and excited as Sherlock had just been? There he was, rushing about, straight into the action and John was left here, alone. His damn leg reminding him with a dull ache that he could never be that deliriously ecstatic again. He was so annoyed that he found himself shouting at his new landlady who had been nothing but helpful from the start. Luckily she allowed him to vent and had left to make him a cup of tea, 'Just this once, mind! I'm not your housekeeper!'

John lifted the nearby newspaper again. He glanced over the suicide story when a small picture caught his eye. It was the man who had come asking for Sherlock's help, underneath the photo it read 'D.I. Lestrade', he was the head of the bloody investigation. John shook his head in silent disbelief, a loud beep from his phone brought him back into the room.

**You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor**

**\- Yes**

**Any good?**

**\- Very good.**

**Seen a lot injuries then, Violent deaths?**

**\- Yes**

**Bit of trouble too I bet**

**\- Of course. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.**

**Want to see some more?**

'Oh god yes!' John found himself exclaiming. He jumped up and turned for the door only to discover Sherlock was already standing there waiting. His eyes were narrowed and focused but bright and mischievous. A small smile gently curled his lips. He was trying to hold his enthusiasm back. He turned on one foot with his long coat swinging out from behind him and raced down the stairs followed by John trying to keep up. Mrs Hudson almost intercepted them as Sherlock pinched his fingers in the sign for 'no' and made the tea gesture again. Mrs Hudson commented that it wasn't natural to be so excited about murder but her warm smile didn't really give the necessary gravitas to the comment, however it did make John think briefly about the thrill he was feeling just being a part of Sherlock Holmes' company. Sherlock waved his right hand dismissively, splayed his fingers slightly on both hands, palms down moving them to and fro and then with a loud clap he turned his right hand over to throw the back of it heavily down onto his left palm. He turned on his heels and rushed towards the front door, John followed him without stopping to consider anything. This was the best he'd felt in a long time. He felt part of something. 

Finally something _was_ happening to John and although he wasn't sure exactly what that something was, he couldn't wait to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this. I have gone with ASiP for this again but am unsure whether to keep going with it or send the boys swiftly on their own unique case.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm new to this so as usual constructive criticism and comment is always welcome.
> 
>  
> 
> (*) I had to write about Mrs Hudson on the stairs because these things happen all all the time, it made me laugh writing it. Some people will even talk about you in front of you but that is the exception! Poor Mrs. H, she doesn't mean to be rude. 
> 
> (**) BSL varies around the UK but I have tried to get this as close to London and more formal, recognisable BSL as possible. I apologise if some slang signs have managed to get in there. I do not own Sherlock unfortunately. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy.


	4. Mr. Heathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break from our ASiP to give more insight to the Holmes boys when Sherlock was at school.

Mycroft sat on what he felt was the wrong side of the imposing varnished oak desk. He had come to resent the stern face that looked down on him slightly from the opposite side. The correct side of the table. The side that Mycroft swore to himself that he would one day be on. He also promised himself that there would be few with rank and importance enough to ever join him there. The sunlight beamed in from the huge ceiling to floor window just behind the correct side of the table. It almost took up the entire wall and gave a feeling of omnipotence to the man seated opposite him whilst blinding Mycroft at the same time. The floor was covered in dark green carpet and the room was bare save for the table and some bookcases which flanked the walls on either side of it.

Sherlock had just turned thirteen and this was the third time that Mycroft had been summoned to the school headmaster's office in as many weeks. 

Mycroft studied the principal, Mr. Heathering. He was approximately fifty-eight years old, he drank too much port in the evenings, evidenced by the tint of blue on his nose, he had heart problems as could be seen in his crescent shiny fingernails and stubby fingertips, he was cheating on his wife; his big open desk diary easily gave that information away, every item was meticulously written in detail save for 'MEETING - R' or 'OVERNIGHT CONFERENCE' written without subject information or city. He'd lost his hair in his forties, save for the grey around the sides but never given up on growing it all back. Mycroft smiled at the soft sheen on the man's bald head and the slight smell of hair strengthening formula in the air. He had a gambling problem, the pawn mark on his wristwatch just about visible and The Racing Post hidden not quite well enough among the papers and files in the bookcase to his right. His wife no longer loved him, he had a huge streak of jam down the back of his jacket and she hadn't informed him before he left the house. He loved his sons more than his daughter whom he didn't fully believe was his. Her photograph obscured a little behind all the others and slightly pointing away from the one of him and his wife. He was right. She wasn't his daughter. Mycroft couldn't help but think she should feel relieved about that.

'Well, Mr Holmes. Here we are again.' he boomed.

'So it would seem.' Mycroft replied quietly.

'Hm. Well, let me cut to the chase as it were, Mycroft. I can call you Mycroft can't I?' he said in a familial manner.

'No' 

For such a small word Mycroft had managed to lace it with enough venom that the headmaster understood that this would not be as easy a conversation as he had planned. His cheeks reddened slightly; he was used to people cowering in front of him and not setting their own ground rules.

'I see. My apologies.' he hissed slightly, 'Well, the subject matter will hardly surprise you Mr Holmes, it is that of your brother. You see today we found, how do I put this...we found _parts_ in Sherlock's room. They were stored in a box along with his microscope and other science things and well, it makes the other children ill at ease. Now although we are sure that your brother acquired these items naturally through walking in the school's woodlands and not through any malicious means it is, you understand, completely inappropriate to conduct experiments on dead animals within the school grounds.'

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the man continued, the colour rising in his face as he spoke.

'Now, we've already had the fire and the episode with the supposedly accidental chlorine gas. We've dealt with the smoking on numerous occasions and the fist fights but that's not all Mr. Holmes, you see it is your brother's overall person. I am left wondering if he is Edmonton material, do you understand what I am trying to illustrate?' he stared across the table and clasped his hands together to rest on the desk.

'No, please elaborate. In what way is my brother _not Edmonton material_ exactly?' Mycroft detested this man. He knew he simply had no time for Sherlock and wanted him off his books.

'Well, he refuses to interact with his peers and doesn't attempt to make friends, he never tries to socialise or participate in school sports, we have had to break up fist fights on quite a few occasions, he offends most of my staff on a daily basis and when i call him into my office he looks bored and uninterested or simply just confused by it all. He doesn't even bother to try to use oral communication anymore, he plays music incredibly loudly and at all hours. Your brother can also be very loud and distracting for other pupils at times. He is incredibly blunt with the teaching staff and that simply will not do, as a pupil he should know his place. You see Mr Holmes?' he gave an exasperated sigh as he finished.

'No.' Mycroft said, 'I'm not sure that I do., 'You see my brother, Sherlock, has tried to make friends. He has been trying since he first arrived. He was promised an environment at Edmonton in which he would be supported to do so. This environment has never materialised and instead he has been bullied relentlessly by his so called 'peers' without any adequate intervention from you or your staff. This is what led to the 'fist fights' that you reference. Sherlock has been bullied by these boys both mentally and physically. He often corresponds the details to me. I had offered to remove him from the school but you see, my brother is somewhat strong headed and would not be defeated by the ignorant behaviour and attitudes of the common school ground bully. You mentioned sports, he is enthusiastic about his fitness but tells me that no team here will have him and so he has simply stopped trying.'

Mycroft could feel the anger rising from the pit of his stomach, he wanted to reach over the table and throttle the man but he had to keep going, compose himself for Sherlock's sake. He could tell the man wanted to interrupt but he refused to give him the space.

'I noticed, Mr Heathering, you mentioned that Sherlock now refuses to speak or attempt any oral communication. Well, for that I can only apologise. I have no clue as to why my brother would not want to use a language that is not his own. As I'm sure you are aware, Sherlock lost his hearing at quite a young age. Yes, he knows how to form sounds and has worked well with private speech therapists but he has now been deaf for half of his life and so English has gradually become his second language as his BSL has flourished. My second language is German, by the way, perhaps you would prefer me to use that while conversing with you? No? How odd given your affinity for second languages to be spoken at all times. In regards to music, Sherlock has loved the violin since before he could walk. If you ever bothered to listen to him play you would realise how good he is and what an asset he could be for your precious school. I'm only sorry that the one thing he seeks solace in while here causes you such an awful grievance. Yes, Sherlock can be rather blunt. His language is concise and to the point. That is the nature of it you see, rather like Russian. I'm sorry that offends you, again, it is his fault for not attempting to accommodate you by using his second language at all times. Oh and as a final note, did it ever occur to you that when you bring him into this office the ridiculously large window with light beaming in from behind you might just mean that he can't see your face? That would mean he can't even attempt to read your lips for clues as to what you might be talking about. Of course, that could all be solved by you learning some basic BSL but I wouldn't expect you to go to the trouble of communicating in a different language. I'm sure it would be horribly difficult for you.'

Mycroft straightened himself slightly and pulled his jacket down at the bottom. He waited for the next move. The headmaster sat stunned and his face was scarlet with either embarrassment, rage or both.

'You make it all sound so biased and unfair Mr Holmes, really we are trying to do everything we can for your brother but maybe he would be better suited to another school. A school that had more pupils like him -'

'A school with more high achieving geniuses, yes, I couldn't agree more.' Mycroft raised his chin slightly as he gained the upper ground.

'Now, Mr. Holmes...' the man started again.

Mycroft jumped up suddenly from his chair, he simply had enough.

'Do not 'Mr. Homes' me one more time!' he boomed. He lost control for one second but with a deep breath lowered his voice again, 'You disgust me. My brother was put in your care and you have failed him utterly. He should know his place? He does know his place at Edmonton and it is after everyone else. That you have the audacity to blame your lack of care on my brother's behaviour absoloutely astounds me. You would do well to take an early retirement Mr. Heathering. People do talk and in your case they have plenty of material to talk about. Sherlock will cease to be a pupil at Edmonton from this day forward and I hope to never have the misfortune of seeing you again, you repugnant little man.'

Sherlock felt the reverberation of the headmaster's door slamming travel through the floorboards under his feet. Even if he hadn't felt it he would have observed it through the jump the secretary gave just before Mycroft approached him again. It let him know that all did not go well. Sherlock winced slightly in dread at what Mycroft was going to say. Would he telephone mummy and daddy to come home? Would he stop him going home over the holidays? He looked far from happy.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft from the first seat in a row of empty chairs lined up against the wall outside the office. Mycroft raised his head and motioned for Sherlock to follow him.

Sherlock walked beside his brother down the long, empty corridor. He eventually worked up the courage to tap him on the arm. Mycroft turned towards him looking tired and angry.

'What?' Mycroft spoke as he signed.

'Mr H say what?' Sherlock signed.

Mycroft inhaled and thought for a second.

'Headmaster say you best science.' Mycroft hated himself for lying and he knew that Sherlock would see through it straight away.

'No' Sherlock snapped back. The sign came quickly and with force, it showed his mistrust of the statement.

'Yes. Your experiments best. You need better school. Science teacher better. Experiment lots, You maybe c-h-e-m-i-s-t. Edmonton science rubbish.' Mycroft pulled a face and added the rubbish bit in order to make his brother laugh but he was just met with a quizzical stare.

Sherlock made a cup shape with his left hand and put the little finger of his right hand into it to imitate mixing something. Mycroft looked confused.

C-H-E-M-I-S-T Sherlock signed to his older brother.

Ah. 

Sherlock was willing to believe the lie. 

The lie was necessary in the end Mycroft told himself. Just like the ones that had come before and those that were sure to come after. 

He worried deeply and constantly about his brother. He vowed that he would always do whatever he had to in order to protect his little brother. The same little brother who was now happily and furiously signing away about his latest experiment on the breakdown of tissues after death in small woodland animals. Mycroft smiled as they walked alongside each other and strolled out through the doors of Edmonton for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was hard to write. The ableism and oral teaching was difficult to write about and I realise it is a sensitive subject for many. I feel strongly about it but it isn't intended to get into personal opinions on d/Deaf or HoH politics and I don't want it to be seen as me forcing my opinion. As usual constructive criticism is welcomed because I've no idea what I am doing. I should add apologies for syntax. 
> 
> Thank-you so much for taking time to read my work.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Constructive criticism is always welcome as I'm new to all this.


End file.
